


Old Acquaintance

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Shopping. Food. Rowing over breakfast. Scientific Enquiry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John goes Christmas shopping and has an unexpected encounter.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 17
Kudos: 95





	Old Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Старая знакомая](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914840) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Don’t know about you all, but Advent goes on in my house! Slowly but surely. I might start doubling up on the prompts, which might sound like a bit of a cop-out, but can, in fact, just add to the challenge. Anyway, let me know what you think of this one. Oh, and I do apologise for being so slow on replying to comments. Sometimes it is a choice between writing more and doing that. I will reply to each one and be assured that each one is cherished.
> 
> Prompt here: Shopping

...days long gone...

-Burns, R. [loose translation]

Habits formed in childhood are somehow indelible.

Especially, it seemed, those associated with the holidays and perhaps that was why John Watson found himself walking into the Marks and Spencer near Marble Arch. His mother had always gone to this very M&S for Christmas shopping and so John naturally headed there for the same purpose.

Not that his mind was really focussed on shopping. Or on Christmas, for that matter. Deciding between perfume or a silk scarf for Mrs Hudson was not what he’d thought this morning would hold. Nevertheless, he decided to buckle down and get the bloody business done.

In retrospect, of course, the way the day was turning out should have been entirely predictable. Had he really thought that sleeping with Sherlock Holmes would suddenly turn the other man into a reasonable adult? Did he even _want_ that? Probably not, if he were being honest. John knew the man he loved very well and in some ways it was reassuring that Sherlock remained as mercurial and ridiculous as ever.

It did make life a bit too much like a rollercoaster ride, however. As he thought about that, John was forced to edge his way around a small child who apparently had been disappointed with his visit to Father Christmas’s grotto and so was throwing a screaming fit in the middle of the aisle.

The ascent was making love for much of the night, still learning to touch and be touched, still learning to trust and be trusted in such intimacy, before falling asleep wrapped together.

But every rollercoaster descended as well. That was the time when it seemed as if everything were out of control and all you could do was hang on, hoping not to go flying out arse over heels. Hope not to hit the ground. 

John never really liked rollercoasters, although he could not resist their lure. His favourite [although rather in the way that Moby Dick was Captain Ahab’s favourite whale] was The Vampire at Chessington. He enjoyed the climb, rising 21 meters above all the ordinary things of the world, but the descent at 72 kmh was the frightening part and it was the need to conquer that fear which had kept him queuing for yet another go. 

Neither was he especially fond of metaphors, but sometimes they felt necessary. Like now.

In this particular instance, the descent meant having a massive [and absurd, really] row over breakfast. It all got so loud that Mrs Hudson even peeked in. She was wise enough to decide that discretion was the best move and so vanished again without speaking at all.

Every couple rowed, of course.

But the shouting in those cases was probably _not_ about the mouldering pancreas, which had leaked out of its plastic wrap and contaminated the bacon which John had been looking forward to having with his breakfast. As he shovelled in his eggs and toast [but no bacon!] the argument degenerated somehow into the history of anti-scientific bias and the idiots who perpetrated it.

“All I wanted was some crispy bacon,” John said finally, sadly. Then he stood. “I’m going Christmas shopping.” And he still did not know where those words had come from, as he had given the holiday no thought at all before that very moment. It just seemed a good way to end the row about Thomas Hobbes [of whom John had only a vague knowledge anyway] and, further, why John apparently didn’t want the murder of Tisch, the Greenwich solicitor, solved.

And now, here he was in M&S, trying to stir up some holiday spirit despite the cacophony of the frantic crowd and the unrelenting carols blasting over the sound system.

At the moment, he was debating between a silk scarf with tiny lavender violets and one with large pink roses for Mrs Hudson. The caramel-coloured girl behind the counter was waiting patiently for him to decide. Well, possibly she was patient. Or maybe just bored.

It was then he heard the voice.

“John! John Watson!”

He turned around and through the throng of shoppers saw a familiar face, albeit one he had not seen in some time. One he’d never thought to see again, if he were being honest. Maybe even _hoped_ to never see again.

Clearly still not one to stand on propriety, Mary Morstan was hurrying towards him, ruthlessly elbowing her way through the crowd. John put the two scarves back down onto the counter. What was the etiquette for greeting a woman you were once [almost] engaged to and from whom you had parted on, well, awkward terms?

Apparently, Mary thought it was to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “John Watson Christmas shopping? What has the world come to?”

“Christmas, it seems,” John replied dryly.

They had not seen one another since a most unpleasant lunch less than a week after Sherlock’s return. 

Mary had been cheerful when John arrived for that meal, chattering about the menu and making a few light-hearted [yet somehow still pointed] comments about the interrupted proposal. When the waiter had delivered two glasses of sparkling white wine and taken their orders for a Caesar salad and a medium-well beef burger with cheddar and bacon, she lifted her glass as if toasting.

After a moment, John made a half-hearted return of the gesture.

The lunch went downhill from there.

“How is life back on Baker Street?”she asked after a few minutes of idle conversation about the charming cafe and the weather.

John was startled to realise that he could hear the hard edge under the pleasant words and see the ice shards beneath the placid gaze. She was clearly still very angry that he had moved out of their shared flat, using the excuse that he and Sherlock had a lot to work through. Even he recognised the foolishness of that excuse, at least in retrospect.

He could not remember exactly what he’d said that brought the meal to its sudden end. It _was_ nice that the waiter did not even crack a smile as he produced extra serviettes so that John could dry off from the wine tossed in his face.

And now, in Marks and Spencer at Christmas, Mary had just kissed that same face.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged and then Mary said, “I am absolutely parched. Shall we sit for a natter and some tea?”

John really did not want to. But neither did he want to be an arse about it. _Compulsory courtesy_ Sherlock had once accused him of.

Mary grinned at him and he was abruptly aware of how _unsettling_ an expression it was.

“Oh, I would love to,” he lied. “But I still have some shopping to do and Sherlock will be expecting me home for lunch.” John smiled. “I promised him sticky toffee pudding.” Well, not exactly, but no Holmes he knew would ever turn down pudding and custard.

Her gaze was nearly forensic as it studied his face. “And what did he promise you?” Mary asked then.

John glanced at the still-waiting sales clerk. Definitely bored. “I’ll have the one with the violets,” he said to her. “Wrap it, please.” Then he turned back to Mary. “Everything,” he said. “Sherlock has promised me everything.”

Mary just stood there, almost forlornly, and for just a second, John felt something like sympathy for her.

“Happy Christmas, Mary,” he said.

“You can both go to hell,” she said tightly, before walking away.

He paid for the scarf and then headed for the Food Hall.

Pudding and custard. Not a peace offering, exactly. Just something one did for a partner. Even one who was a giant cock sometimes.

The rest of the Christmas shopping could wait, because just now he wanted to be back in 221B with Sherlock. Even if it meant another lecture on Thomas Hobbes. Whom he intended to Google on his phone in the cab going home.

John whistled along with the too-loud music, as he manoeuvred his way through the ridiculous crowd, in search of toffee pudding for Sherlock.

**


End file.
